


Mine

by ZombieBabs



Category: The Black Tapes Podcast
Genre: Crack Treated Seriously, Extremely Cursed Rarepairs, Hand Jobs, Other, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Shadowy demon jealous of interepid reporter; more at eleven, Strand: reluctant psychic and monster-fucker, he's afraid but also totally into it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:15:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24188749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZombieBabs/pseuds/ZombieBabs
Summary: “Stop it,” Strand says, reaching for the lamp to steady it. His eyes flick toward the tall shadow hunched in the corner of his vision.The shadow, taller than a human being and vaguely shaped like a man, ripples with laughter.
Relationships: Richard Strand/Tall Paul
Comments: 2
Kudos: 18





	Mine

**Author's Note:**

> the following work is just...extremely cursed. please enjoy :)

_Richard_.

Sitting at the desk in his office, Strand grits his teeth. He ignores the voice, keeping his eyes trained on the cursor blinking on the screen before him. He taps out a string of words, filling the quiet with the soft _click-clack_ of keys.

_Richard_.

The lamp sitting on the corner of Strand’s desk flickers.

Strand continues typing.

The lamp blinks off, plunging Strand into semi-darkness, lit only by the blue-tinted glow of his computer monitor.

Strand reaches across the desk. He turns the lamp off then flicks the switch back on. Light fills the room. 

Strand goes back to typing.

The lamp flickers again. The base wobbles, the lamp inching toward the edge of the desk.

“Stop it,” Strand says, reaching for the lamp to steady it. His eyes flick toward the tall shadow hunched in the corner of his vision.

The shadow, taller than a human being and vaguely shaped like a man, ripples with laughter.

Strand swears. He stares hard at the computer monitor, reading and re-reading the same handful of sentences.

_Richarrrrd_.

The shadow’s hollow whisper makes Strand shiver.

Strand closes his eyes. It’s been years since the tall shadow plagued him. Why now?

Strand knows the answer as soon as he poses the question. Alex Reagan’s podcast, of course. Revisiting the Black Tapes, specifically the one featuring the demon that the child, Sebastian, had nicknamed Tall Paul. Could the shadow have taken Strand and Alex’s interest as an invitation? 

“You’re not real,” Strand says, almost conversationally, his eyes still closed. 

He doesn’t have to see the shadow to know that it’s laughing at him.

The clock on the wall on the far side of the room counts the seconds as Strand studiously ignores the shadow. 

A minute _tick tick ticks_ by when something brushes against his arm, inexplicably both warm and soft through the thin fabric of his sleeve, like the touch of a human hand. It travels from his elbow down to his wrist in something mimicking a sweet caress.

Strand sits still in his chair, hardly daring to breathe. His heart pounds in his ears. 

The shadow has never touched him before. He’d always expected it would feel cold and damp. The same cold and damp he’d dreamt of when he’d discovered the body of Bobby Maimes, but sharper, more intense.

Phantom fingers trace the column of Strand’s throat. He shivers again and lets out a shaking breath, his blood singing with both fright and...interest?

Strand shakes his head, trying to dislodge the spectral hand. He opens his eyes to see the shadow standing hunched in the same position, its upside-down eyes staring back at him.

Without moving, the shadow touches Strand again, an invisible hand cupping his cheek.

In spite of himself, Strand leans into the touch.

The shadow shakes, but not with laughter. With anticipation.

_Richard_.

The touch moves to his shoulder. It drops to his collarbone, fingers raking downward. The blunted edge of its nails—claws?—catch on his nipple and Strand presses himself against the back of his chair, gasping at the shock of pleasure-pain.

Across the room, the shadow’s upside-down eyes narrow with interest. Its upside-down mouth grins wider.

The shadow’s phantom fingers travel downward, over Strand’s ribs. They ghost over Strand’s belly, down, down.

Strand closes his eyes again. Should he run? Running never helped him before. Should he try to fight it? Could he fight it? 

The spectral hand falls to Strand’s thigh. It moves in slow, heavy circles. 

Instinctively, Strand’s legs fall open. His cock twitches, trapped within the confines of his slacks.

This cannot be happening. This cannot be allowed to happen. This— 

Strand hisses when the shadow’s fingers inch upward, tracing the line of his inner thigh. He rocks his hips toward the touch, but the touch dances away, circling again, so close, so _close_ , but not close enough.

Fuck, it has been too long since someone last touched him. And the shadow has yet to kill him. It has yet to do anything other than annoy him throughout the years. Perhaps if he indulges the demon, perhaps if he gives it what it wants— 

Strand swallows, incredulous at himself, at his own desperation. His hands grip at the arms of his chair, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t try to get away.

“Please,” he hears himself say, his voice nothing more than a deep rasp. He looks at the shadow to see it staring back at him, its mouth open, its whole body shaking.

The shadow, slowly, so very slowly, traces the line of his inner thigh again. 

Strand doesn’t move, afraid to move, afraid for so many reasons. 

The shadow cups Strand through the fabric of his slacks.

Strand’s eyes flutter closed. He takes an unsteady breath. He does everything in his power not to move, not to run, not to buck into the touch. 

When he opens his eyes, the shadow is rippling with laughter.

_Got you_ , it says.

Fear sings in Strand’s veins, but still he does nothing, his cock half-hard in the shadow’s grasp. 

The shadow squeezes and Strand stifles a moan. 

_Off_ , the shadow says.

Without thinking, Strand reaches for his belt. He unbuckles it with shaking fingers. He slides the zipper down and down and down before he knows what he’s doing. Before his rational mind can fully take over, Strand lifts his hips and shoves both his slacks and his boxer briefs down to his knees. He sits, legs spread wide, the leather of the chair warm against his backside, his cock standing at attention.

The shadow shivers again, upside-down mouth still open, shadowy upside-down eyes gleaming. Too-long fingers belonging to the invisible hand wrap around Strand’s cock. It fondles him, its touch much too slow, much too soft.

“Please,” Strand says again. He bucks his hips into the touch. “More.”

The shadow grins ever wider. _Richarrrrd._

The shadow grips him tighter. It jerks him off, hard and fast.

Strand pants, rolling his hips, fucking into the circle of the shadow’s invisible fist. 

The shadow rakes a second hand down Strand’s chest, nails catching at his nipple. It plucks at the bud through the cotton of Strand’s shirt, sending jolts of pleasure-pain through his system. A third, impossible—impossible?—hand cradles Strand’s balls, rolling them gently, squeezing lightly.

Strand whines as he comes, his back arched against the chair, spilling in hot, heavy ropes onto his lap.

The touch vanishes instantly. 

Breathless, Strand swallows and looks at the shadow.

The shadow grins, its upside-down expression satisfied. 

_Mine_ , it says. _Not the reporter’s._

Strand blinks, confused. “What? Alex?”

_**Mine**_. 

The shadow vanishes.

The lamp on the corner of Strand’s desk wobbles, before crashing to the floor.

Tipping his head back, Strand closes his eyes and lets out a sigh. He stays like that until the rapidly cooling mess on his lap becomes unbearable, before rising to clean both himself and the shattered pieces of lamp.


End file.
